Classic Poem

"No home, no home," cried an orphan girl
At the door of a prince's hall,
As trembling she stood on the marble step
And leaned on the polished wall.

Her clothes were thin and her feet were bare,
And the snow had covered her head.
"Oh, give me a home," she feebly cried,
"A home and a piece of bread.

"My father's face I have never seen,"
With tears in her eyes so bright,
"My mother sleeps in a new-made grave,
While her orphan begs tonight."

The night was dark and the snow fell fast
And the rich man closed his door.
His proud lips spurned as he proudly said,
"No room or bread for the poor."

The rich man slept on his velvet couch
And dreamed of his silver and gold,
While the orphan lay on a bed of snow
And murmured, "So cold, so cold."

The night rolled on like a midnight charm,
Rolled on like a federate knell.
The earth seemed wrapped in a winding sheet,
And the chilly snow still fell.

When morning dawned the orphan girl
Still lay at the rich man's door,
But her soul had fled to her home on high
Where there's room and bread for the poor.